It's got beyond a joke. My boobs officially require their own passport, ID and own island to live on. I mean - how big can pregnant breasts get? Don't answer that. My G cups runneth over and I refuse to go higher because I simply can't fathom that my chest is almost bigger than my bump. It isn't pretty. I look like me with a cartoon drawn upon my frame. My mammeries have nowhere to go in their 'no underwire' rule bras - they are just sandwiched together, jostling for space and rubbing each other up the wrong way.
Oh yes, between the mountainous breasts runs an itchy irritated river of discontent - that no amount of talc or sudocream or moisturiser or anything can help. It is like they hate one another - the sweaty space they try to fit won't let them breathe so they are staging their own silent protest. I can't bear to look at myself naked in a mirror. Don't even get me started on my ever changing nipples. Too much info? Sorry - but try living with them. I feel utterly removed from myself - some overblown porno queen whose surgeon didn't know when to say 'no.'
Then there is the butt pain. Who knew that waddling would hurt so much in the muscles in your ass? Throw in some piles for good measure and basically my pregnancy is just one royal pain in the arse. I am of course grateful to be pregnant - I just fecking hate the last trimester with all my heart. Inability to sleep, peeing all through the night, raging heartburn/indigestion, and not even a wee drinky to make everything that little bit out of focus. Skin tags creeping up in the weirdest places and catching on bra straps etc. Will I ever be me again? Some women feel sexy pregnant - which astounds me. I am so far from feeling even remotely attractive that I can't remember what it was like to feel good about myself let along enter the box of 'hot.' Sweaty and out of breath, swinging and waddling and unable to bend - aint hot. My chest is so out there that I cease to look normal - if a freak show circus rolled into town I'd lay money on them paying me top dollar for a flash.
Sometimes I look at my old bras and feel nostalgic. Will I ever use them again? Or will I sell a kidney in order to fund a breast reduction/tummy tuck? I jest of course - who wants more surgery after a C section (Dec 6th - booked, hurrah) but I wake from dreams of my old self and remember with a thud that I am no longer that shape - then try to somehow hurl myself out of bed, all too aware of an imminent black eye if I move too quickly. Please forgive me for this pity fest but 3 months ago a colleague came for lunch and came back to work declaring to all 'CM is sooooo pregnant - it's all tits and bump everywhere!' That was 3 months ago. I am a world away from the tiny bump and blossoming breasts of those days. Right now people cross the street to try and squeeze past me.
Oh well. 9 weeks and counting. Who knew that the best part of your day could be the one when you took off your bra and let it all hang out? Excuse me, I've gotta run and let a saucer sized nipple escape.